


Spread your Wings

by Oraeliaa



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Eventual Smut, First Time, Flustered Aziraphale, Frottage, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Orgasm, Pining, Smut, awkward aziraphale, daft and funny story, giver of knowlege, madame tracey - Freeform, mentions of madame tracy, more tags to come, why are all my stories tagged with mutual pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-18 13:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19335787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oraeliaa/pseuds/Oraeliaa
Summary: When an angel possesses a humans body they pass on love, light and knowledge. What if, when Aziraphale possessed Madame Tracy, she passed on some knowledge in return?Knowledge that now rattles around his head with all the continuous power of a slinky going down a never ending flight of stairs. Before this, his small fantasies always ended with soft kisses under the moonlight, or a hand holding his as they walked through a park... not a body against his own, breath gasping into the night air.And, if there's one thing everyone who has met Aziraphale for longer than around 10 minutes knows about him...it's that he's never been very good at keeping his thoughts to himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am in Good Omens hell - I love it, so much. Find me on twitter @Oraeliaa to share in the Good Omens love!

Aziraphale was never fond of the idea of simply taking over the body of another. It felt too...rude, to tell the truth. Too sordid, too intimate for any true angel to enjoy - though he did hear of certain angels doing it as much as they very well liked. They didn't care if they forced themselves onto the vessel of some poor human, didn't care if they took knowledge with them…

 

“The human receives divine wisdom” they would argue, with a simpering smile only angels could manage, as Crowley would say. When he’d managed to chance upon a human attempting to contact the other side, offering themselves, well he couldn't quite believe his luck. He’d even managed to communicate with this Madame Tracey first, to ask for consent and all that - otherwise, he wasn't sure what he’d have done. 

 

The apocalypse was more important than one's own squeamishness and moral code, after all. 

 

And seeing Crowley so...disrupted, well that had spurred him on more than anything else, if he had to admit it. He couldn't even begin to imagine how the poor chap must have felt, he couldn't imagine, after all, how he would react if he’d have been given the impression that  _ his _ ...no... _ that _ demon was dead. 

 

Crowley, after all, was not  _ his.  _ Demons and Angels couldn't belong to one another, it simply wasn’t done. Even if said demon was currently lay on his sofa, long, shapely legs hanging over one arm, toes clenching and unclenching as he read whatever he was reading on that phone of his. He’d long since accepted, in his own quiet way, that the legs were shapely. That the whole of his best friend...acquaintance…-soul mate, a small voice within him provided -  _ best friend _ was shapely - if beautiful could be contained within the very concept of shape. 

 

Because that’s what he was. Beautiful. Alluring, individual, as much snake as man, as much angel as demon. For all his fallen ways, his mischievous side, he was the one who had given the apple, the one who had rescued Aziraphale from the executioner in France…

 

The one who had hopped through a church to rescue him. 

 

_ A church _

 

And the one who had saved the books. 

 

He’d met other demons, along the way - rotten souls with awful stenches and features, who turned his stomach and caused his angelic essence to dial up to 11 with all the delicacy of a hissing swan; but not Crowley. Around Crowley, demon or not, his essence had simply purred, one white wing curled around a black one, made to fit together. And he’d run from it, of course he had - so focused on what he should and shouldn't be doing in the eyes of his people, rather than what he should and shouldn't be doing in the eyes of his heart, of his soul…

 

He remembered talking to one friend about it, once, after too many drinks. The gentleman had been very little help, all things considered - more content to wax lyrical about the complex beauty of their conundrum rather than offer any actual help, telling him to ignore his family's wishes, ignore their beliefs and be with the person he loved. It was then, in 1596, that he’d had to accept two things as truth-

 

That he did, perhaps, feel more than friendship for Crowley, and to never take advice from a playwright. 

 

After all, he knew what happened to Angels that cavorted too heavily with Demons. Either the Fall, or hellfire. There were no trials, to discussions, no ‘honestly Gabriel, I was just telling him to be good’ - only death. That’s the only thing that was available to him, uptil now; the constant fear they’d be caught every time they went for crepes, and the fear that God would read his mind one day and discover a daydream about Crowley putting a flower behind his ear and kissing him softly on a picnic blanket. 

 

Boom, hellfire. Instant death.

 

But now, they were free. Free to begin the kind of 6000 years he wanted to have, perhaps with fingers, softly touching after dinner, as they walk through the park. Feet, meeting beneath a table. Looks filled with longing, and perhaps, if it felt right, lips, upon one another. Again, for they’d kissed once; back in 1872, after too much wine and it had been beautiful, and terrifying, and he was almost 99% sure Crowley didn't remember it. 

 

And  _ before _ , that’s where his fantasies ended, and then he’d go into hiding once more and try to pretend that’s not how he felt at all. He’d dart around the Earth, going good deeds to all he passed til their paths crossed once more again, like they were fated to see each other. Medieval England, he ran into the black knight after hiding for 10 years following a daydream about a too-warm hand in his. The American Wild West, he’d been slung over the back of Crowley’s horse after almost being taken out by a gang of ruffians; and had spent the entire journey trying to not focus on how effortlessly magnificent the Demon looked in  _ that hat _ . 

 

The hat and boots combination had taken up a number of his daydreams following  _ that _ encounter, as had the kiss from 12 years before the western rescue; and he’d been forced to return to England, start up a bookshop and try and retain some sense of Angelic Duty. He was supposed to be heavenly and without sin, for God’s sake if not his own; not tied down by temptation or greed…

 

It wasn’t that Angels didn’t have...relations, so to speak, it’s just that they were absolutely forbidden to be with Demons. Considering the position Gabriel and Michael had been caught in all those years ago, it was well known that lust wasn’t just under the purview of  **Downstairs** , but was healthily dotted about  **Upstairs** too - only instead of a ‘not in my backyard’ kind of manner, it was in a ‘can only place  _ in _ my backyard, under the Almighty's heavenly light’ kind of manner. And so Aziraphale had remained pure, and untainted. He knew about... **other things** , of course he did - he was over 6000 years old after all. But he’d never... _ known _ , not in the biblical sense anyway. He’d always held more of an abstract concept, in that regard. And so his daydream’s never really dwelled past gentle kisses and a heavy amount of handholding. 

 

And that’s how he’d been destined to be...Until he’d shared a body, and mind, with one Madame Tracy. Destiny, you see, is a funny thing like that. She gets bored, every once in a while. There’s millions of humans around trying to contact  _ others _ . Giggling, innocent children at parties. Normal people, who feel ridiculous and know what they’re doing isn’t worth it but just  _ maybe _ someone will come and grant their wishes if they open their minds, if they pray long enough or attend enough seances. There were other people around the table, in fact, who all  _ could _ have been viable choices - if destiny had decided that sure, things were fine as they were. If she hadn't have given a nudge in the right direction. In a very knowledgeable direction. 

 

In Madame Tracy’s direction. 

 

He’d never shared a body before, never having lost his own - largely thanks to the interventions of Crowley- and so the onslaught of imagery was new, and near deafening. He’d focused, of course, on his objective - getting to the antichrist, saving the world, continuing his 6000 year dance with a certain demonic friend of his; but now...oh his wonderful, angelic mind held so many real, physical possibilities of what he could do to those lovely, shapely legs. Before, a simple foot massage would possibly be the height of his creative options, but now, he couldn't help but picture laying kisses down their length, feeling the hair under his lips, seeing those perfect toes curl as he-

 

No. 

 

No, he told his brain, fussing in the kitchen with the various knobs and dials of the oven, feeling either the room or himself become warmer. He needed to stop.  _ This _ needed to stop. Before, he’d known his little sordid fantasies of intertwined fingers and lips pressed together in the morning sun were trifling, unattainable but enjoyable. They’d been bittersweet, and carried with them a slough of unwanted guilt but they’d been fond, cultivated by wry smiles and rescues in churches. 

 

But they were just that, impossible, unattainable. For he was an Angel, and Crowley was a Demon, and Head Office might not notice a lunch here and there or a conversation on a bench, but they’d certainly notice if the two eternal beings began...canoodling under the full moon on a bridge in the park as fireflies bobbed in the air beside them. He couldn’t help but sigh at the imagery - how perfect it would be. 

 

But now that was possible, possibly. Crowley obviously held some affection for him, otherwise he wouldn’t be here - he wouldn’t have moved all those plants into his front room, or those bottles of wine into his rack. He wouldn’t have spare sunglasses dotted on Aziraphale’s bookcases. 

 

It was very obviously possibly possible, now. And that, was terrifying. 

 

And so instead, Aziraphale decided to continue as he was; and ignore the various snippets of knowledge and understanding he’d been unwillingly gifted from Madame Tracy. He sorted through them, picked the ones he wanted, and filed the rest away under ‘Absolutely Terrifying, Must Not Consider In Great Length”.

 

Tonight’s invitation came from one Aziraphale chose to acknowledge, for it wasn’t the exact sensation of a large, pink paddle being liberally swiped across ones rear. A sensation that an Angel  _ absolutely should not be aware of.  _ Gabriel and Michael’s stumbled across tryst had been absolutely scandalous and that had little to no relation to large, pink paddles. He was almost certain, having gained gossip from a lesser angel that had stopped round for tea and cake, that it was incredibly vanilla compared to the things Madame Tracy had accidentally taught him. There had been a desk involved, and that was the only raunchy part of it. 

 

So instead of the paddle, or the...other matters, he’d focused on something nicer. A recipe. For pie. 

 

A recipe that he was absolutely, completely giving 100% of his attention to, as the words of Madame Tracy’s mother imparted them into his brain, via her brain. 

 

Bring the beer to a boil, simmer with the sealed steak, potato and onion for at least 2 hours. 

 

Reduce it down

 

Blind bake the pastry, pricking the-

 

_ Do not think about the other meanings of the word prick. _

 

Pastry along the base, to avoid the unnecessary rising. 

 

_ Do not think about the veritable gallery of rising that is now in your brain, do not wonder how Crowley’s- _

 

“You’re looking rather pensive tonight, Angel, what  _ are  _ you thinking about?”

 

He honestly didn’t mean to answer truthfully. He was just so focused on desperately attempting to be focused on the **correct** thing, and not the  **wrong** thing, that when asked a question he’d just...answered. And the moment he did, he heard the distinct sound of a phone being dropped, of it hitting the floor in just the right way to probably shatter the screen - but more than that, he heard the half strangled “what?” from the Demon as he very, severely and without thinking answered honestly...

 

“Your penis”

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice it's been upped to 3 chapters; so it felt balanced and not just one little chapter and one HUUUUGE chapter - find me on twitter [@Oraeliaa](https://twitter.com/oraeliaa)

“What?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Nono, Angel” Crowley snapped, beginning to take a step into the room and reconsidering it; continuing his lifelong study into the art of fake nonchalance as he spoke. “Don’t you start correcting my grammar now”

 

“Though it really should be Pardon, Crowley, not-”

 

“Stop changing the subject and answer my question”

  
“Well you didn’t actually  _ ask  _ a question, per-se”

 

Crowley shot him a look, that even behind those dark lenses managed to scream ‘shut up you little shit’. 

 

“I…” he hesitated, wiping floured hands on the cream, pristine apron as he did, feeling as if his entire body wanted to immediately dissipate into the air. I...don’t know why I said that” Aziraphale admitted, babbling as he reached for the phone, as his fingers touched Crowley’s and they both flinched away from the contact. 

 

“Are you  _ not  _ thinking about my dick then, Angel?” came the snarky reply.

 

“Well, I-”

 

“Why the Hell are you thinking about that, Aziraphale? I mean I don’t blame you, if you’re going to think about any they may as well be-”

 

“It’s not  _ you _ !” Aziraphale bluffed, hands up in surrender. 

  
“Ssso you’re thinking about someone else's penisss? Who’s? Gabriel’s?”

 

“Good lord, no!”

 

Crowley’s words got more angry as they continued, as he felt his snake-side come forwards in his frustration. “Who was that other one that alwaysss used to stomp around like he owned the place...Uriel? You thinking about Uriel’s junk?”

 

“No Crowley, Lord Above, no”

 

“So” he said; the single syllable having more weight than any full stop Aziraphale had read on any page. “You  _ were  _ thinking about mine then?”

 

“I… would really rather not be having this conversation” Aziraphale groaned, turning back to his stew and stirring it gently with the wooden spoon, the implement leaving a small puddle of gravy on the countertop as he lifted it. 

 

Crowley’s voice grew warmer as he laughed sarcastically, relaxing further against the doorpost as he continued. “Then perhaps, old friend, don’t declare to helpless bystanders who have come to offer you fine company and better merlot that you’re fantasising about their cocks. You’ll stop someone’s heart that way, you know”

 

“It’s not me! It’s…”

 

Crowley crossed his arms, phone abandoned on the floor. One eyebrow raised itself with perfect precision; and in the evening sunset his hair glowed distractingly ruby. He gestured with one hand to continue, once he caught his old friends eye. 

 

“It’s...Madame Tracy”

 

“Who the bloody hell is that?”

 

“The Human, that I…”

 

“Borrowed?”

 

“Yes…”

 

He laughed, the sound like floating bubbles through Aziraphale’s congested mind. “So  _ she _ was thinking about my penis? Dirty minx, she only knew me all of about 20 minutes”

 

“No, nonono. I  _ was  _ thinking about...your…”

 

“Knew it” Crowley scoffed, before glancing at the Angel over the tops of his glasses, “but why?”

 

“Because she has...well…” he drifted off, nervous and unsure and lost. “Given me knowledge. Like...this pie!” he exclaimed, pointing to the very neat pastry case in front of him, small rows of perfectly spaced fork pricks in it’s base. “You’ve seen me cook before now”

  
“Bloody dreadful”

 

“Exactly!” he began, before looking over, hurt. “You said the soup was good... for a first try”

 

“I was being nice; now please, continue, what does a pie have to do with you poking holes in pastry and apparently fantasising about my genitalia?”

 

Aziraphale grimaced, realising how it might have looked. “She was a...knowledgeable woman of a certain profession”

 

It took the demon all of three seconds to begin snorting with laughter, one hand tight on his wiry hip as he did so. “You possessed a lady of the night?!”

 

“She was also a lovely cook, and a caring friend to our acquaintance Shadwell”

  
“I’ve got nothing against the profession” he protested, still laughing. “But you! Aziraphale! Most likely to put a question into a radio 4 talk show, collector of dusty, useless”

 

“Excuse me!”

 

“Books, now has the scattered remains of the knowledge of a prostitute in your head!”

 

The angel watched him laugh, eyes weeping as he did so; and each time his fingers lifted to wipe them away they gave a small glimpse of those bright, yellow eyes; eyes that had always,  _ always _ been a soft spot for him. 

 

“Stop laughing!”

 

“So, go on, what else has she ‘taught’ you?” he asked, resting his weight on one leg as he did so; gesturing the quotations into the air. 

 

Aziraphale squirmed, going pink. “I don’t want to talk about this!”

 

“Fine...fine…” he said, devilish smile on his handsome features. “Instead you can tell me why you were thinking of my cock, a question you’ve neglected to answer til now”

 

“I...I”

 

“Pick one, Aziraphale”

 

“Look” the angel began, pouring the meat juices into the pastry case carefully; giving the redhead small glares out of the side of his eyes as he did so - careful not to spill any of the darkened juices on his lovely new apron. He knew he could always miracle them away, but really; it always felt as though it were there. He truly didn’t want to have this conversation, and hated his comfortable mind around Crowley, so quick to reveal the truth. “You have likely figured out the reason for my absence, and negations, and insistence on our seperation sometimes. I know you know, you’re too astute not to have”

 

Crowley remained silent, merely switching his posture to two feet, laughter forgotten as he let his old friend continue. 

 

“But I do think this is frightfully unfair. You know I often cannot hold my tongue when i’m distracted; and recently you distract me a great deal and I know you can see it; I know you know, when I do all stuttery or pink and you smirk at me and I’m the only one who remembers that kiss!”

 

“Hey now-” the demon began, hands lifted; ready to argue his corner. He couldn’t get his words out though as Aziraphale continued, a blur in soft beige and cream as he crossed the kitchen for the pastry brush.

 

“No. I am going to make this pie, and we are going to drink red wine, and then you’ll likely fall asleep on my sofa and we'll pretend that I wasn’t just making a pie and wondering what your erection looks like alongside the sudden mental catalogues of erections I now have the displeasure of having in my head when truthfully the only one I’ve ever wanted to know or see was in fact, yours!”

 

He finished, breathing heavily. His heart was racing, his palms were sweaty, and he ran them under the cold tap to chill them before moving over to the shortcrust pastry, knowing it would simply sag under his fingers if they were too hot. Or, well, his brain knew, now. With it’s new knowledge. So much new knowledge, sauntering around in his head as if it owned the place and wanted him to know what his prostate was, and how easily a mere press from the Demon he loved could destroy him faster than a demon spritzed with Holy Water. He didn't realise that he was still talking til he caught the word prostate in the air and continued, weakly with the rest. And then he stopped, and closed his eyes and waited for the sound of sudden, rapid vanishing, or the front door slamming, or the roaring engine of the Bentley outside. This was it, he’d ruined it, he’d absolutely ruined it. How many times did he accuse Crowley of going to fast for him, and now he was talking about intercourse over dinner. Not even dinner, over the  _ preparation  _ of dinner. 

 

...He’d have to eat a whole pie alone. 

 

“What, exactly, are you trying to tell me, Aziraphale?” 

 

The Angel in question snapped his head up, not entirely caring that the bristles of the small brush he’d collected were dripping egg over his countertops. The demon couldn't be this oblivious - why else would a respectable gentleman enjoy a series of lovely dates with someone then run to another continent for a number of years onto to return to the first as soon as chance presented itself. How could he have been doing anything else but running from his feelings?

 

“Oh come on Crowley, you have to have noticed by now how I truly feel about you; underneath it all!”

 

Crowley’s voice grew low; and dark. “I asked you to come to Alpha Centauri with me; I reached out, and you turned me down”

 

“Because we couldn't just leave! I couldn't just leave...not even for you, Crowley. My place is here, helping the humans for as long as I'm able”

 

“Not even for me?”

 

“It would have hurt me for a millenium to part with you dear, but I’d have found you...when everything blew over”

 

“Would you have?” he asked, voice bitingly sharp. “Would you have left your books behind, your little cakes and dinners at the Ritz?”

 

“It wouldn’t be worth it” he replied, voice quiet, “without you to share it with”

 

They were both silent, for a moment. The oven beeped; the small light going off; but they ignored it; eyes glued onto each other until it became too insistent and Crowley glared; waving a hand and smirking as it powered down. 

 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chastised, “It took me eons to figure out what setting it needed to be on!”

 

“This is more important” the Demon argued, taking a step into the kitchen with the kind of smoothness to be expected of the Serpent of Eden; seemingly led by his hips. His voice continued with it’s hissing tone; and was almost predatory in its deepness now. “How long, Aziraphale?”

  
“I beg your pardon?” the Angel stuttered, stepping back and glancing behind him as he found himself pressed against the polished wood counter. 

 

“How long have you felt this way for me? Because, if I'm understanding you correctly, this is more than just sssecond hand lust from a professional”

 

Aziraphale hummed a little, suddenly fascinated by the small tuft of stitching coming from the instep of his house-loafers. He couldn't look up, not as he caught sight of those dratting sunglasses, being carefully pressed onto a clean tea towel. He couldn't look into those eyes and remain concise. He...he couldn’t…

 

A hand, warm and firm, slid under his chin and tilted his chin til they were practically nose to nose. And then they were nose to nose, Crowley’s other hand coming to rest against the curve of the countertop behind him. They’d been this close, of course they had, but it had never been this charged, this intense. He’d always thought, in those moments of lips, pressed against his; but it was all he could think of now; feeling the intoxicating, almost sinful sensation of warm breath hitting his skin. 

 

“How long? Because I’ve felt this way for nigh on 6000 years, and you’ve spent a large portion of that pushing me away, Angel”

 

6000...no. That couldn't...could it? Aziraphale looked back, really looked at their interactions, the soft glances and warm looks and continued ‘temptations’ to dinner, or wine…

 

“I think, Crowley” he said, voice finally coming alive inside his throat as his mind caught up with the idiot truth of their conversation, “that it’s been growing since you gave that lovely young woman that apple”

 

The Demon growled at that. “Since Eden? Since the wall, since the conversation and the first storm?”

 

Aziraphale coughed, knowing that he’d spent the last few thousand years trying to run from his feelings, trying to ignore them, trying to pretend they didn’t exist. And for what? To find out his best friend, his  _ best friend _ , had felt the same way all along?. “I was fascinated since the start...I’d never seen a more beautiful snake. I was scared though, of what it meant, what it truly meant, to feel this way. I was scared of being caught, of Upstairs finding out and doing unspeakable things; of what it meant to be an Angel, and love a Demon...And then we shared that kiss, and never discussed it again, and I thought I’d lost my chance...”

 

Those golden orbs; those bright, intelligent reminders of everything he should feel guilty for wanting trained on his own, drawing him in as they always had. “Come here, Angel”

 

“What are you-”

 

“I’ve spent the last few hundred years waiting to kiss you again, and I’m not waiting another fucking second longer”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay it's longer than it should have been, and i've upped the rating so please BEWARE if you were expecting a fade-to-black kind of situation; though I don't feel it's...too explicit. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@Oraeliaa](https://twitter.com/oraeliaa) and let me know if there's anything you want me to write, see what i'm considering writing, share the joy of Good Omens together!

Aziraphale felt as if he were floating; or drowning - honestly at this point he didn’t care, couldn’t care, only able to focus on the sensation of two soft lips against his own. Crowley was, unsurprisingly for a Demon, practically built for temptation, a fantastic kisser; and the Angel couldn’t help but worry that his own skills weren’t quite up to scratch, given that he’d been kissed all but once in his life before now and the gent in question - currently pressed against him - hadn’t brought it up again. Crowley’s tongue pressed against his own, teasing, tasting - sampling what Aziraphale had to offer; and the Angel couldn’t help but notice he felt more intoxicated from such simple contact than he’d ever felt after the drinks they’d shared. This was new, exciting; making him feel breathless in a way he hadn’t in...he wasn’t sure how many years. How could it be that a kiss, a simple, human act of affection, was affecting him more than an imposing apocalypse?

 

Crowley’s hands had barely moved, one still gripping the counter, penning him in, the other keeping his chin high, bringing him within kissing distance. It was magical, wonderful; and as those lips finally left his he chased them, not wanting a second of it to end. 

 

"Well…” Crowley sighed; his breath stuttering in the air as he finally pulled away to look Aziraphale in the eye. “This is all a bit sacrilegious isn't it"

 

“Oh do shut up” Aziraphale snapped, hands reaching forwards to crowley's hips, pulling him in tight once more. The demon groaned against him, obviously surprised by the sudden aggression from the usually submissive man, and Aziraphale wasn’t aware he could crave a sound so much. He slipped his hands from those hips upwards, over the jacket - and then, in a move of either bravery or desperation, he wasn't entirely sure himself, under the jacket; feeling the soft warmth of the others skin through his tight top. 

 

He wasn’t hot to the touch, not as a demon could be; but...warm, hands almost cool where they were pressed against his skin. He was tight though, all sharp edges and taught muscles; and as Aziraphale squeezed he could feel them through Crowley’s thin, tight t-shirt. It’s new, so new; everything happening - the sensation of hip bones under his hands, lips against his own, the tip of a faintly forked tongue flicking against the roof of his mouth. It’s too much, too soon, and he can almost hear his heart thundering within his own ears, threatening to burst as a slender, toned thigh presses between his own and the coiling heat in his stomach threatens to burst. 

 

He has to pull back; too hot, too wired up in his own love, and lust; the two sensations clouding his senses and threatening to pull him under. 

 

He can feel the unspoken question in Crowley’s suddenly worried eyes, in the hand that’s slipped from his jaw to tangle in the soft whiteness of his hair - he’s not entirely certain when that happened. 

 

“I’m going to need you to tell me to stop, if that’s what you want”

 

“I’m fine, I'm fine”

 

“Are you certain?” the Demon practically growled, head resting against the pale shoulder of Aziraphale’s jumper. “We can stop, put the pie in the oven, move back to the sofa and you can read me poetry, or we can put a record on?”

 

Aziraphale’s voice caught in his throat, excited, shy, nervous for what was about to happen. He could feel Crowley’s excitement, but also his love; filling the room in a way he must have had so much self control over, over the years. Either that, or Aziraphale had simply been in too thick a denial to notice. All he knew though, without question, was that he wanted nothing as much as he wanted those lips...everywhere, anywhere, any slither - no pun intended- of affection the other being would give him. Every single bit of knowledge Madame Tracy had left him was swimming around in his head all at once, endless possibilities and positions; especially for them; so easily able to change their forms to suit whatever their hearts desired. “Or…”

 

“Or” Crowley began, putting enough weight behind the word that Aziraphale could feel his breath catch in his throat in anticipation, “I can take you to your bedroom now and show you what we’ve been missing all these years”

 

Aziraphale nodded, pushing Crowley back. “Bedroom, if that’s quite alright with you?”. The demon laughed, taking Aziraphale’s hand and pulling him forwards, “Oh, you have no idea how alright it is”. They paused at the door to the kitchen, as Crowley realised throughout his bravado that he wasn't actually entirely certain where his companion kept his bedroom; having never been there; and Azirapale smirked, overtaking the taller man and leading the way; pausing for a second to point at the record player as he went.

 

“What’s accompanying us tonight then, a bit of Mozard, some Bach?”

 

The angel shook his head, opening the faded, white painted door into a perfectly ordinary bedroom, all things considered. Tall, ancient bookcases stood as sentries either side of the bed, and honestly Crowley wanted to know how often the miracle was reapplied to stop them toppling over and spilling onto the floor, the number of books that weighed down each bowing, wooden shelf. Everything else in the room was, laughably, the exact opposite of Crowley’s - light pine furniture, cream cushions and brass door handles; a patchwork quilt neatly tucked around the base of a bed that looked as if it had been in the house as long as it’s occupant. 

 

His Angel was stood to one side, fingers fiddling with the Apron he’d forgotten to take off, quickly gesturing to the bed before darting back out of the room to place it back in it’s proper place - and put the pie in the fridge - before checking on the record player, turning the volume up slightly and taking a breather before continuing. Music, he had learned in recent weeks, was an important part of one’s seduction. And, also in recent weeks, he’d acquired every single available vinyl by

 

“Abba?” 

 

Crowley’s voice was incredulous as Aziraphale came back round the doorframe, grinning sheepishly at the lanky figure draped across his bed as if he belonged there; though in Aziraphale’s very correct opinion, he of course, did belong there. 

 

“I happen to rather like Abba, if you really must know”

 

“ _ Abba” _

 

“Yes, Abba. Swedish group, very popular in the Early 70’s…” he drifted off for a second, struck by the view ahead of him. Looking every bit like a seductive ink blot on an otherwise milky page of parchment, Crowley was stretched out on the soft, feather duvet - jacket, thin scarf and waistcoat abandoned on the side of a chair by the window alongside his trousers. This was the bed that Aziraphale tucked himself into in his matching flannel pajamas, curling up with a book and a hot chocolate; and he’d always hoped, no, wished that one day he’d look across and see a grumpy, snake eyed demon beside him. “Say” he continued, breaking his own revery. “Do you remember your mustache back then?”

 

“I remember a certain someone telling me it was  _ unsightly” _ Crowley replied, eyes rolling as he spoke, hands miming quotations around the final word. 

 

“It wasn’t your finest look, that’s for certain. The bell bottoms though, they looked rather marvelous on you my dear”

 

“I would have loved to have seen you in just one scrap of fashionable garb you know, to have something to tease you about in return”

 

“I’m afraid I’ve never been as good at all that as you; I found these around 100 years ago and I’ve carefully preserved them since. It rather matches the shop too; looking about the place like…”

 

“Like the hottest museum curator I’ve ever come across; now, either turn off the Abba or take off one of those layers and come join me”. Crowley winked as he spoke; and Aziraphale couldn't help but smile brightly as he heard his companion mutter  _ abba _ under his voice as he removed his jumper, gently laying it on the chair opposite the one Crowley had commandeered. The journey to his bed had never seemed so long as he climbed up, settling into the welcome embrace of Crowley’s arms just as ‘S.O.S’ ended and ‘Take a Chance on Me’ began. 

 

“It seems that our friend Madame Tracy was quite a fan, I know all the words now you know” Aziraphale commented, proudly.

 

Crowley paused from where he’d been laying kisses against Aziraphale’s temple. “What...else has she taught you, you never did answer me earlier?”

 

Aziraphale pondered the words, gasping as the kisses moved downwards, trailing little wet marks down his neck. A small glimmer in the back of his head alerted him to the new knowledge of lovebites; and he found he didn’t want anything as much as he wanted the physical reminder later on of what was happening right now. He laced his fingers into Crowley’s shorter hair, holding him close as he moaned around the sensations, a quiet, new noise to escape him. “She was quite fond of paddles”

 

Crowley moved away from the skin of Aziraphale’s neck to look at him, startled. “Paddlesss?”

 

“Oh yes, of many shapes and sizes”

 

“Naughty thing” he laughed, moving back down to continue worshipping the skin of the angel as if it were what had created him, what he had been cast away from. “Tell me more, Angel. What other dirty little ssssecrets are up in your head now?”

 

He went quiet, moans devolving into small gasps; one hand moving upwards to push his white hair back from his face as the kisses trailed back up and he discovered just how sensitive ears were; especially when your partner could have an incredibly interesting tongue at will. 

 

“Don’t go ssssilent on me now” The Demon chastised, his tone accompanied by a dragging bite along the flesh of Aziraphale’s ear that had the Angel yelping with sudden arousal, surprised once more by the sudden quiver in the pit of heat that had taken up ownership within him. He wasn’t certain whether it was just the physical actions, or the combination of that and the slight hiss he associated with Crowley’s excitement; but the two together were almost mind numbingly arousing. 

 

“I think I'd rather discover them for the first time with you...” he sighed, smiling shyly at Crowley as the Demon pulled away once more, pulling Aziraphale up with him and into a long, deep kiss; climbing onto his much wider lap and pulling them flush together as he did so. 

 

Aziraphale hummed as one thought swam to the surface though, one that had been rather pressing logistically for a while now like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. “Though I am curious as to the exact mechanics of deep-throating, whatever that is” 

 

Crowley swore against his lips, the blaspheme feeling like a bolt of fire against Aziraphale’s skin. HIs hands slid downwards to the base of Aziraphale’s top, lifting it over his head and immediately running his fingertips against the soft skin. It was a miracle that the shirt found its way onto the chair so neatly, instead of being lay against the ground, but  _ somehow _ it managed; Crowley’s landing rather more haphazardly against the ground some seconds later.

 

If Aziraphale thought their kisses were groundbreaking, it was nothing to the sensation of skin on skin, of small scales under his hands from crowley’s hips as he felt as much of the other man as he could possibly manage; body so different from his own. He knew it well, he’d been  _ in  _ it after all, though the vernacular in this particular circumstance caused him to go red-hot; and buck upwards into the soft pressure the other person in the bed provided. 

 

“Angel marks” Crowley hummed, fingers trailing down the gold adornments on Aziraphale’s chest, exactly where human hair would have been. “I always wondered where yours would be”

 

“You must have seen them before?”

 

“Never”

 

“Not even in the-”

 

“The baths were too steamy”

 

“What about the-”

 

“I was too nervous you’d catch me looking” Crowley admitted, remembering the mud baths they’d both found themselves in and how he’d stared up at the tiling above their heads as their two parties suddenly realised they knew each other remarkably well and left the two friends to soak together for as long as they wished. 

 

“I wish you had; I wish I had” Aziraphale muttered, thumbs rubbing against the expanse of exposed skin, fluttering along the scales there as if they were the only thing that mattered. He leaned forwards, a flash of inspiration taking him, and pressed his lips to Crowley’s chest; taking the other being’s sudden intake of breath as a wild ‘please, keep going’. He was so slender, so perfect, and Crowley’s dusky nipple looked as delectable as any strawberry sorbet in any restaurant they’d visited. He took it into his mouth, flushing with happiness as Crowley writhed against him, grinding down at the same moment as Aziraphale helplessly pushed upwards. The pressure was the greatest thing he’d ever felt, so new, so  _ intense _ , and both of them moaned openly into the quiet air of the room; the only sound in the background the gentle warbling of the intro of another song; so mismatching with the groundbreaking nature of the situation currently happening one room over. Crowley pushed against Aziraphale’s stomach; glad of the softness and desperate for friction, and the Angel found himself desperate for...more, for less barriers and more sensation. 

 

He should feel guilty, he wondered as he miracled his own clothing away, for both wasting the Godly miracle and for using it for something as debased as Lust; but right now, in this situation, nothing felt more heavenly than the abandonment of his thick corduroy trousers for the preferred situation of soft, cotton shorts; allowing him to feel every line of Crowley’s erection against his own. 

 

It was overwhelming, the sudden influx of sensation, of reality, of hard length against hard length and a thin, talented hand moving between them as lips found his own once more. Aziraphale had touched himself, obviously, just only really now and then, and only when he were truly aroused to the point of unavoidable distraction - for example, after returning from their body switch, or when the man on top of him discovered hot-pants in the 70’s. He’d never needed more than the whisper of a memory of a kiss back then to bring him to a long, drawn out completion, not really; and could safely say now that what he’d experienced in those few times had absolutely nothing on the sensation of this. Of a hand that wasn’t his own suddenly sliding his drawers down and rubbing him firmly. Eyes wide, he couldn’t help but glance down at the sight of his own self, slipping unbidden against Crowley’s, tucked together within the strong embrace of one of the Demon’s elegant hands; and let out a deep, shuddering breath as he caught those fascinating amber eyes, as he pulled Crowley against him, as he rushed, entirely unbidden towards his finish. 

 

“Are you close?” Crowley asked, pulling the Angels bottom lip into his mouth before he could answer, sucking it hard as he bucked into his own grip. 

 

Aziraphale could only nod, entirely lost in the sensation of everything happening at once. He shook, tensing hard as it hit him, groaning low as he came between them; as he glanced between them to see Crowley do the same, back arched sinfully as he did so. Aziraphale leaned forwards, holding Crowley against him, not caring about the mess between them as held them as close as he could; smiling against the skin of his lovers shoulder. 

 

“You’re glowing with Love, Crowley” he signed, feeling it’s warmth around him. “How did I not see it before?”

 

“It’s amazing what you can learn to hide, Angel” he chuckled, happily tucked in the Angels warmth. “I have a request though”

 

“A shower?”

 

“Soon”

 

“To do this again?” Aziraphale suggested, hopeful. 

 

“Most certainly, but no, that’s not it”

 

“Well do go on then dear chap?”

  
“For the love of all that’s unholy,  _ turn Abba off” _


End file.
